July 2015 | Back Home

At 287 Plymouth Road, fantails flitter from bamboo to banana leaves, chestnut shoots to cherimoya. They dance above mounds of horse poo and decomposing twigs, following a man in his mid-50's on his daily stroll.

Nonchalantly he wanders through spindly peach and hazelnut trees, sprawling wild kale and pumpkins, clambering raspberries, fiery pink sorghum and the hundreds of luminous droplets of the tamarillo tree.

Always a few centimetres out of reach in their ceaseless inquisition of the Homo sapiens, the hyperactive little bundles with tails the size of their bodies tip and tumble through the air.

Above the party, fat Kereru lurch from one spindly tagasaste branch to another, their massive wings whipping the salty air – 'whoosh, whoosh, whoosh'. Their beady eyes peer down at him past their plump bellies. (In the summertime, they are often drunk off juicy harakeke berries. One flew into the kitchen window once, off it's face. Shattered glass everywhere. Now, they are subdued, peaceful).

I follow the sun as it trails around the old house. It peers in through paint stained windows from rise to set. I shiver, realising the time isn’t yet 3pm and already it’s begun its descent down to the ocean floor.

(Or should I say, we're too rapidly spinning, tilting away from this magnificent source of light, life. Our star. How grateful I feel for the messy, gassy perfection of our universe.)

It was over nineteen years ago when we moved here as a nice family of a mummy and a daddy and three young children. While that was to all change dramatically just months after the move, the house has remained; the cobwebs strung up about the dusty toolshed, the dark hallway my remaining brother and I played dodgeball in, the matching floral couches and cushions that saved us from hot lava, the doors you have to shove your bodyweight behind to open for the neighbourhood cat, the now-retro plates I once found embarrassing, the eternally dripping kitchen tap.

In this six-metre-square room on the sunset side of the house the 2001 Dell computer is still humming, an old Yanomami paper-mache figurine I made at school when I was six peers down at me over the CD stack, 100% Millennium Hits, Bob Dylan, Pink Floyd, Lazy Sunday, the Black Seeds silently gathering layers of dust.

Nowhere on earth feels so familiar.

And I wonder, why do I not feel different? Why do I not feel something, when I sleep in the very room that once contained all my dreams, hopes, fears? Why am I not brought to my knees when I visit my now-overgrown 'secret spot' down by the river I would escape to and cry and write melancholic poetry? When I see the nasturtium-covered stump of my horse chestnut tree, whose beloved limbs are now scattered across this new permaculture-food-forest that's taken over? Have I not changed?

And why, despite being thrown between feelings of guilt for not being 'productive' for my 'real life' and relishing in waves of utter comfort do I have a tendency to want to hide out away from the world each time I'm here? Why do I not rush to contact a dear friend with whom I spent countless delightful days running across the neighbours farms, climbing trees, having midnight feasts and putting on fashion shows?

I moved away from 287 Plymouth Road when I was sixteen. Hardly spoke to my dad for the few years following. It was a difficult time in both of our lives, and the angst, blame and anger stained this place for me, made it ugly.

These days, as I meander through all the new growth that now envelops the property, I wonder if perhaps it is okay to be a hermit, to want to share special, quietly transformative moments with the place I've despised in, loved in, fought in, been sick in, learned in, cried in and grown in.

For when I look at my dad now, his quiet satisfaction as he potters around his garden - his sanctuary - replanting lavender and searching for tomatillos, I feel okay with the bit of hermit within me. At peace with it. For I see something we've always shared, that I've fought for a while now but am coming to embrace.

My dad is the most loving person I know. He may have never received a guidebook instructing how to handle an opinionated teenage daughter as a single father, but he's always cared, and always been searching for his own bliss. And his bliss has always been here - his place to tinker, create, and simply be - at home.



Check out my new website, Inside Lives, for stories and images that celebrate how us colourful human beings find refuge, joy and growth within our homes.

December 12, 2012 | Rainy Skies and Beautiful People

Hello!

Well, we're back in grey Seattle. Still with the coolest gang of people in the world - James by my side, my mum and her boyfriend Guy, the cutest couple ever (Well...second to James and I of course).

Today we are finding out the pathology report (eek!) and having my cool, rockstar staples removed. What we find out in the next few hours will determine the course of action we'll take in life over the next few years - perhaps longer.

There is a possibility that things may be able to remain as normal ("normal" is a funny word right now), and there is also a possibility we may have to move to New Zealand, depending on treatment options. After we've chatted about it with the doc and each other, I'll let you know.

I've been feeling better every day. Still waking with awful headaches and my brain is still making funny noises and moving (it's creepy) but to be honest, I'm enjoying being bald. It's fortunate I've always enjoyed social experiments and pushing aesthetic boundaries.

We were in a sweet little French restaurant last night and a thin, blonde, heavily made-up waitress was staring at my head for a lot of the meal. I felt a little shaken, but smiled anyway. None of that stuff seems to matter anymore, as I truly have experienced the very best of humanity throughout all this, and have never so much believed in it.

As a friend said last night, in a way this has been a reminder of all the love that's out there, and it's just a shame it takes something like this to bring it out. But I don't really think it's a shame. I know both love and pain at a much deeper level now and will always be grateful for it.

We've had so many questions we've struggled to articulate,  and any answers we have been able to find have been typically vague. We'll make sure to bombard them with questions today.

I can't help wondering what went with the part of my brain they took out - I've joked with James it was 'urgency' as I've been rather slow lately, but I'm sure it's just circumstantial. Life just seems to slow down after something like this. I'm floating around like a ghost.

I guess we all need reminders to slow down... and trust that life will all work out. This was a pretty effective one. I've been so lucky to have people to trust and lean on during this time, allowing me to float slowly in this mist I find myself in. They've been wonderful.

Alright, we're off, back to the hospital. See you later! 

January 8, 2013 | Still Alive!

We had to move. 

And the past few weeks have been a shaky walk to find my feet again. It all happened so fast. The diagnosis, the shock, the decision, booking flights, my sober 21st birthday, going back to our beloved town of Moscow one last time, fainting, forgetting my meds, hundreds of friends coming out on our 'official' last night wearing crazy wigs to send us off. 

It was a tear-stained, messy, joyful night.

The next day - the last day - was ours alone, to relish in the joys we had shared, alone and together, with our hometown over the past three years. Coffee at One World, cheesecake at Bucers, tacos at Casa, gyros at Mikeys, dinner at the restaurant we went on our first date at (we were full!) before watching 'It's a Wonderful Life" at the town's gorgeous, historic cinema. 

We wandered home one last time, hand in hand, new snow falling gently on the bare winter trees lining the streets. We walked up the bright orange painted stairs and all their excitement for our new life together. We crawled into our bed one last time. I'm not sure we even entered our office, or went out onto the roof/balcony, spaces that had contained our plans and dreams, for it was in darkness the next morning we left. 

Under the watchful eye of the flight attendants, we made the long journey to Wellington, New Zealand. The capital city was shrouded in fog when we arrived, adding to our daze (okay, I'm especially dazed) as we wound up to our home for the next while on narrow streets lined by twisting Pohutukawa.  

When the fog lifted, we saw Wellington. From the top of Cluny ave, the sun rises in arrays of reds and oranges and purples over the Orogorongas to the East, journeys over the distant Rimutakas and Tararua ranges perched up the north of the sparkly harbour, and sets over the massive, rolling hills aptly called 'the Skyline'. 

We managed to go up to Taranaki, my homeland, for Christmas, staying in little cabins on the waterfront. What a heartwarming experience it was, to see my dad and his family after all this time...and all this. How wonderfully therapeutic is was to swim in the ocean on Christmas day. 

I’ve missed the incessant pokes and jabs and medication so much that I will begin IVF tomorrow. IVF - a concept I remember learning about in high school science and not blinking an eye to. It’s something that applies only to old women who have left things too late, right? 

It was a surprisingly easy decision to go ahead with the fertility treatment and embryo freezing. Not so long ago, both staunchly independent world travellers, we were would have laughed at such a concept as having children. So, our parents are about to become a grandparents of multiple cold, very well behaved grandchildren. We are currently accepting applications for godparent roles for each of them.

 ***

The sunshine of this sudden summertime and going for small walks are helping me build strength in this precious bit of time while I wait for radiation therapy to begin on Monday.

It’s funny…I actually can’t wait to begin. Of course, It’s no fun being in hospitals and they still get me down in their own strange way, and being in ‘the mask’ is claustrophobic and uncomfortable (breathing deeply and sending my mind to other places being my strategy), but I’m really excited about starting radiation. It feels like such a long wait since surgery, such a long time waiting around with life on hold for this treatment that now looms.

Life is good. 

January 9, 2013 | A Letter to James

I wrote this to you last night after heading down to bed. I hope you don’t mind me posting it here.

I woke this morning wanting to write to you and it was in my list the whole day. As always (yes, even when you are with me, if that’s not too strange to say), I can’t get you out of my mind. I keep thinking about how it will feel for you to drive in to Moscow and to wonder at the strange loss of the feeling of coming home, or to see all your friends that so clearly love you and to know that you must be kept apart from them by distance, money and all that stuff, and most of all, how it will feel to walk into 120 South Polk and see the remnants of our life strewn about there. The weight of what you are doing for us is unfathomable. It’s silent but for the wind down here in the den and I have little tears gathering at the corners of my eyes at these imaginings.

My guilt is sometimes, just sometimes, overwhelming. Guilt for turning not only my own but other peoples lives upside down. Guilt for acting differently after surgery and as I waited for treatment to begin. For not being strong enough or loving enough. This is my own choice to feel this guilt, and you know that I refuse to dwell on things that can’t or couldn’t be changed. I choose to feel it because I know I could have been more loving and dynamic and brave over the last few weeks, and it only makes it worse that you too knew it, and was the only one to voice your belief in me…and I let you down. It’s funny, that’s been the hardest thing. Not the surgery, not the jabs, not the fear of death, I’m really not too worried about that stuff. It’s the fear of letting you down and of being a burden.

I’ve felt really great in the past few days. I’ve wondered if I should feel guilty for saying that, as it’s not something polite people say to others just after they have left. But as you know, ‘polite’ isn’t the first adjective I shoot for (there are much more exciting ones, like wondrous, phenomenal, sparkly or intrepid). Anyway, let’s just say it was since our breath-of-air escape into the mountains that I’ve felt good, that perhaps the fright in the night and the icy water woke me up a little. In the past few weeks I’ve taken the saying ‘you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone' (or compromised, or limited, etc.) to be a metaphor for life…. and in the meantime, was forgetting that it’s the goodies inside of life that go unappreciated. The little tears keep wanting to creep back as I think of the awful nights you spent with me in hospital, or tending to me when I could hardly walk, or even worse, putting up with me as I recovered from the ordeal physically before mentally.

Today I ran the Highbury Fling twice. The feeling was incredible, flying through that greenery and feeling my body strain up the hills before gasping that gorgeous clean air and dodging the twisting trees on the way down. I sat by Harriet by the fire and discussed her favorite books and how she gets them out of the library, and cooked a lovely meal for Karen and Carolyn with ma with Electric Guest on full volume. She and I hugged as I wandered down to bed tonight and as I hugged my wheatie-bag, amongst a chorus of sweet “goodnights” between everyone. And now I stare at your pile of clothes and can’t believe that you have traveled across the world for all this.

I can only hope that during this time away you will be able to understand that this here isn’t the life I’ve chosen either…that neither was necessarily Moscow. These things have happened and we’ve found ourselves amongst them, and learnt to adapt and enjoy them wholly along the way. No, the only life I’ve really chosen is the one with you. I may be looking forward to radiation on Monday and be happy being with family, but I loved our life we were and are creating and there is absolutely no way I will ever give up on it. Our dreaming brought us together and we must cherish our dreams always, wherever we are.

The wind is gusting at 140km/hour tonight, and I’m blowing you a kiss good night. I hope it’s carried right to you across the seas, and I love you for knowing what a kilometre is (thanks).

x, your B.

January 26, 2013 | A Weekend Visitor: Andrea

On a sunny afternoon, a 17-year-old me got a phone call. It was my partner in crime and frequent skinny dipping companion Bethany. We had just finished high school, scooping most of the top academic prizes between us despite not being model students and enjoying the occasional party each weekend. 

So when I heard Bethany’s breathless voice on the other end of that phone call, I expected a recount of weekend exploits or something about exam results.

“I’ve just had a phone call from America…I got that scholarship, Andrea I’m going to spend a year at the University at Idaho!”

I remember being so excited and thinking what a perfect opportunity this was for my high school best friend. She told me about the previous winners, and how a few had stayed in the States to finish their studies, pursue careers and marry American men. We laughed hysterically at the notion – imagine Bethany ever getting married, let alone to an American! No way, she would have an amazing year and come back to tell me all about it.

Fast-forward three and a half years. We are sitting in Melanie and Guy’s beautiful house overlooking Wellington Harbour, temporary home to Bethany and her lovely husband James while she has her treatment.

The last time I saw Bethany was in January last year, when I visited her in Idaho and stayed in her jungle apartment. After a day in Moscow and a tour of the university I could instantly see why she stayed, and after meeting James I was not altogether surprised when she told me they were getting married. We talked about master’s degrees and travel plans, American culture and New Zealand politics, skydiving and research projects. We drank wine and danced around her apartment, celebrating this friendship that had stretched around the world and back.

This time, we talk about cancer.  We talk about IVF, radiation, chemotherapy, brain surgery and that red arc of a scar showing through her short hair. We talk about marriage and kids and having to make life-changing decisions, and about the best superfoods to combat brain tumours. Bethany figures she may as well try to be as healthy as possible so we’ve been doing lots of walking, enjoying the rare Wellington sun, and making super-charged juice with vegies from the local market. We’ve been taking photos before her hair starts to fall out.

Last night we sat on the couch with a glass of wine and watched her favourite TV show, Offspring. We gossiped about our old friends from high school who never really grew up, and how much things have changed for us both in the last couple of years. 

It’s funny looking back to those teenage years and how we thought we had life all figured out. All the problems we helped each other through over the years seem somewhat trivial in the face of our biggest challenge yet. It’s been hard to see my dear friend go through all this and it’s going to be even worse as she starts feeling the effects of an aggressive course of treatments. I know she misses her life in America but I’m glad that for now, it’s only a 45-minute flight for me to come and visit from Christchurch.

So to reassure everyone reading this from places far away, I can tell you that your B is doing everything humanly possible to beat this tumour. She might be losing her hair but her eyes still have that slightly mischievous twinkle, and her keen eye for a cute thrift shop dress remains.

In typical Bethany style, last night she looked me straight in the eye and said “I think it’s going to be fine”. And as always, I believe her.

February 6, 2013 | Migration: A Letter to B, from James

Migration

Bethany, I think it's time I write you a letter. My Uncle Eric is deep in the South. His beard has grown thick and full. The grey mask reminds me of my father. He's working on a pipeline right now. Not managing it, not supervising, and not fighting fire. He's just working his aching bones into the ground. It's the kind of work usually reserved for strong backs just out of high school. Why is he there? Because life's messy. The retirement benefit for all of his years of breathing acrid smoke, smashing doors, resuscitating lives, pulling drunks from mangled wrecks, and grieving the innocence lost, is not enough for him to survive as an aging man. He'd love nothing more than to sip on a dram of Islay malt, taste Cuba, and watch over his black-land fields. Yet that remains an elusive dream. He wouldn't have me pity him though. He wouldn't have me pity myself either. And he most certainly wouldn't have me pity you.

Perhaps the thing I love the most about the old chess master is his undying love. His ability to smile a Texas smile at the sunshine before he puts his head down and drives a fence line. And he laughs. Babe he laughs so big, that big hearty bellow that could only be produced from the depths of such an immense heart. I always call Eric when I'm at my lowest points. I guess it always felt like his back was big enough for both of us. He rode his bike all the way from the Red River to Moscow just to see us on our proposal. He never complains. He's never lazy. And he's always a Southern gentleman. That good kind of Southerner, that maintains the old values but keeps a progressive mind. Maybe I love him so much because he always seemed like the version of my dad that I could be friends with. Anyways. The whole point of bringing him up is because I called him yesterday. He listened well and gave me good advice in that story teller way – unassuming yet relatable, with anecdotal advice from a life of adventures, riddled with failures in the midst of great joys. He placed a particular remark in the puzzles of my mind with poignant accuracy. “You're a control freak.”

I guess I am. I never really thought about it like that, but it seems to make a lot of sense. Wouldn't you agree? Although it may be nicely disguised, and there may be a good amount of leeway, it seems to make sense. Why am I so competitive? Why do I strive, sometimes at ridiculous lengths, to win any competition? Why did I care so much about my 4.0? Why do I still care so much about having the best grades? Not even content with A's, it infuriated me if anyone even scored a point higher on a test. And work, there it is again. I could have skated through and made similar money. Perhaps to some extent a healthy amount of a controlling attitude is a good thing. Yet, when it's not about grades, money, or making friends – when it's about something like feeling forced to move, forced to leave, forced to dismantle, then what? Why should it bother me so much? I should be thrilled to go to New Zealand. I should be thrilled to start a new adventure with you. To have a chance at something great, together. But perhaps it's as simple as choice. Even though I faked it well, I've been having trouble convincing myself that I want to do what we're doing. Unfortunately, my inability to cope with the ebb and flow of life catches you in the rip. I'm not saying that because of this new understanding I will be able to put all of my frustrations behind me and start thoroughly enjoying our situation. But I guess what I am saying is that I am able to start working on healthy decisions for the both of us. I've never liked being told what to do, and I hate being dragged into situations outside of my control. Yet, I realize that if I can't get a grip on the tangible in this scenario, I will most certainly make the situation worse for both of us.

The tangible? Well, I guess a lot could be considered tangible here, but a great deal of it is in my head. The loneliness, pity, regret, and sloth are not caused by our new found environment. They are caused by my inability to adapt. I'm not a happy person. In fact I'm incredibly depressed and bitter at the moment. But I do understand that it is up to me to make that a fleeting state, or a landslide. You don't deserve a man who can't be there to support you. And for that reason, I am dedicated to changing the man who writes you now. I'm sorry I've been falling apart. It's not fair to you, and it's not fair to our future. I love you more than anything in this world, and it's time I get back to showing you the truth in that statement. I'm coming home babe. XOXO

February 7, 2013 | James: A Godless Communist

A Godless Communist

There's something about home cooked meals, hours of sleep, and conversations with loved ones that resets an inner compass. This essay is no more political than a love note. Granted, love can be a controversial subject at times.

After a battery of debates with my father regarding different 'hot button' issues, the most recent of which was my stance against civilians owning military grade fifty caliber sniper rifles able to tear a hole through the side of armored vehicles. I was described in jest to my mother as a Godless Communist. Now obviously, there's some truth to his statement, despite the love backing this portrayal. Despite the brevity of my escape to the motherland of red mud, cowboy hats, and barbeque joints, I was able to pull to the surface some much needed strands of insight from their dormant abyss. Ben warned me about his trip back to Oklahoma. He said that it was the best conversations he had ever had with the parental units. In fact, it persuaded him to stop running – at least for now. It always seems that reflecting on my values, and seeing my roots, tends to make problems shrink.

My father and I went back and forth every chance my mother wasn't there to intervene. Father - son bonding time I reckon. Whether we were discussing homosexual rights in regards to the Boy Scouts of America, gun control, socialized medicine, homicide rates in the 'developed world', the importance of a standing army, abortion, or taxes, two themes continued to circle like vultures as we realized we were arguing in a similar direction, with different solutions. People should have incentive and accountability. Why is food service in New Zealand often abysmal? Because they don't treat front of house staff as well respected members of society. Commission and percentages speak a hell of a lot louder than wages. Why do you have to be extremely cautious when picking your favorite saltena vendor in Bolivia? Because you're not getting a dime out of anyone in court for losing three weeks of your life to the oral and anal flood that will ensue if you choose poorly. People must have accountability for their actions, and they need incentives to perform immaculately.

Of course it seems like I'm derailing this blog, but I can assure you there is a legitimate point I'm trying to build. Through the midnight hours of discussing possible solutions to the myriad of issues that are continuously thrown into simple yes/no bins of patriotic conservatism, or flaming liberal propaganda I began to realize this isn't so different from the issues I'm facing in my life. I don't honestly give a shit if someone wants to call themselves a member of the Tea Party, or a libertarian, or a progressive. It doesn't really mean much to me. Secondly, I don't think it really means much to the progression of solutions for our society. It's easy to get worked up about things that seem awful in our lives. It's easy to join the ranks of some new hope, fighting the villainy of past transgressions. It's easy to do nothing in your life while you scream bloody murder on Facebook. It's a lot harder to sit down and think about realistic options available in the wake of grief or chaos.

I've been trying to dig into my own issues with this affinity for accountability and incentive. There has to be a way to pull myself back on course. Back to the love I know is within me, and the strength to be a good steward, while maintaining an optimistic and realistic view of the future. Of course there is, and I believe, finally, I'm headed back to the right path. What is a Godless Communist after all? An indirect compliment? I think it's probably a way of describing my love for life on earth, and passion for strength in our families and communities. Obviously, it's a bit of a false moniker, as I would describe myself as more of an agnostic who finds serenity in the sacred tabernacles of nature, and a capitalist with heavy socialist leanings as far as community outreach and general standards of living are concerned, but I think he was on the right track. It has become clear to me that disappointment is directly related to expectations and goals. Bethany and my quality of life are products of our accountability to one another and the incentives to reach our expectations. Our incentive is a product of the expectations of our goals, which are completely up to us to decide. Furthermore, the accountability to remain dedicated to achieving our goals is also completely up to us. So perhaps redefining my goals is in order. I know I've convoluted a relatively simple argument for apparently no reason. But I suppose it's therapeutic for me to work out all of the little twists the rabbit takes in my mind. The elevator pitch of this entire essay is straightforward.

Bethany, I started to find myself lost without the clear goals we had spent so much time establishing, and subsequently eased my grip on my own accountability towards such goals, which threw me into quite a spiral. But I see once again, so many of those goals we once set are truly subsidiary. The only priority I absolutely have to work on right now is getting the two of us through this mess as smoothly as possible. Everything else can wait. And, in due time, bit by bit, we'll start building our empire once again. After all, as a Godless Communist, I'm only here to survive, there are no pearly gates for me. So I'd better make the best of it then, and I need you for that. So what do you say babe? How bout we get back to basics, and start focusing on just you and me? I'll see you in the morning.

February 14, 2013 | Flossing my teeth

Last night. I have finished brushing my teeth, paying particular attention to scrubbing up and down at the back after a dentist’s recommendation. I grin at my balding self in the mirror. ‘How wonderful to have clean teeth,’ I think. Reaching for the dental floss, I pause.

Why am I flossing?

A mass of thoughts flood through my mind, tumbling and churning. I am reminded of my own mortality. Why does it matter anyway? If I’m not supposed to be here in twenty years, what use is this extra time spent flossing my teeth, which will last that long perfectly fine with just brushing? If our long-term future is one that James will most likely carry, shouldn’t I simply be encouraging him to floss his teeth, considering mine are already better cared for? Am I wasting my time on all this irrelevant stuff? Am I losing sight of what matters?

It goes on like this for a while until I manage to stretch the grin back across my face. “It makes me feel good,” I tell myself, “that’s why.” I begin to floss, making sure to get between each and every tooth.

Yesterday I had written a quite serious piece about futility and purpose, and the role of the little things in life, and keeping hope. But I read through it and realized that it wasn’t a very accurate reflection of my life at the moment. You see, every day is a pleasure.

When I’m not throwing up (like I did in the car today) or entertaining headaches, or sleeping, life is brilliant. I’ve been able to continue as normal really – with the difference being living on the other side of the world and living a completely different lifestyle.

…improved, I could perhaps say. A little lacking in friends and those I love, I’ve had a lot of fun wearing wigs each day, to the point that I feel sorry for people who are always stuck with the same hair. How boring! Each day radiation is a delight – being greeted by Sharon at the front desk, receiving the “hello Darling, you are looking gorgeous today!” and going for little walks hand-in-hand with James at dusk. The small things in life like watching a carrot be crushed and squeezed in my juicer, or cooking a four-course Valentines meal with James for mum and Guy are perhaps more delightful than ever…as is the sight of a sunset and the lights flickering on in the city from our place up here in the sky. To lie down at the end of a day and know that it’s been a good day has an extra sweet feeling of success when you’re not supposed to be feeling good.  Ha! And while on the wonderful things in life, I can't leave out that wonderful thing called romance (can I say this is more fun with wigs too, or is  that too much for the public?). For everyone who was involved in the making of James and Connor's Valentines day creation - click here - I can't thank you enough. It brought tears to my eyes.

Today, however, has been a little more difficult. This morning at 8.45am I had the second egg collection procedure. I was worried about it due to the last one being so painful (for so little results) and had mentally, and physically, prepared myself. After eating ‘fertility foods’ for weeks, not doing any strenuous exercise and putting on a couple of kilos, I was hopeful. Plus, this time we weren’t dealing with defrosted semen.

The procedure was still painful, but much better. They gave me a high dose of sedatives (hence the nausea today) and had an expert find the vein to put it in, saving the six or so jabs they gave while trying to find the right one last time. From this point I don’t remember much, as I was rather loopy. James has been mocking me recently about my inability to act with any convincing emotions beyond happiness, surprise, and love (I fail miserably at ‘anger’). After the drugs had kicked in, I told him I was ‘just acting’ loopy, which improved my score as an authentic thespian.

Anyway, despite the higher dosages making today unpleasant, and the now familiar feeling of knives in my uterus each time I move, it was most certainly worth it. Although I can’t be too sure at this point how many will survive, they collected 12 eggs, which is at the upper end. Last time with six there was only one success, and so a moderate hope would be three more considering the better sperm situation. I admit I’m smiling as I write this. It’s weird how this sort of thing can make those innate ‘motherly instincts’ come out – we were laughing as I held my stomach last night to protect the eggs and said I was incubating.

I’m not sure how I get back to the flossing thing from this tangent, but I guess it all boils down to that all-important little thing called hope. I’ve had to make a conscious choice to live for the future and still make plans…albeit different ones to those before. It could be easy to give up the idea of a long-term future, and start preparing for the worst, but even if it is ‘logical’ to prepare for the worst, who really wants to live like that?

Tonight will be the first night James and I are able to drink (a glass of) alcohol, so I’ll leave you with a toast – here’s to the future!

February 16, 2013 | Little guys

I just wanted to share some good news - advance apologies if this doesn't interest you - but we had the regular call this morning from the embryologist and all seven of the eggs that fertilized have divided! Another one also 'came to life'. By this stage last time there were just two little dudes hanging on. I am being careful not to get too excited (James keeps me in check with reality) but so far, things are going well.

Aden is down for the weekend and the three of us are heading to Zealandia, the bird sanctuary nearby, for a couple of hours. It's the first time the three of us have been together since we went camping about a week before I left NZ. It's funny it took this to bring us back together again. 

February 21, 2013 | Hair #2

We had a rather special visit from Jenny Rankin this week. Amongst the delight of swimming naked on the beach where she and her husband lived 22 years ago with my parents (me growing in mum's tum) girly massage breaks and laughter over wine, Jenny encouraged James and I to begin the transformation of our words into images, both moving and still. Now me being a technophobe, I found this rather daunting.

The reason why I am excited, however, is the fact that I often find myself unable to adequately express the reality of our life here simply in words. Each visitor we had had here, including Jenny, has found it pleasantly refreshing to join us in the daily routine of radiation. While the machine is certainly space-age and a little intimidating, seeing the smiles on everyones faces and the evident support of all the staff, alongside our own happiness, the picture of treatment is a lot more encouraging than one may imagine.

It's entirely possible to be happy even when tired, or in pain. I know I've said this before, but now we will begin to show you. The first way in which I'll show you is displaying the issue of baldness and wigs. Now I know that the prospect of having permanent hair loss may seem a little depressing to some, but I've done a cost/benefit analysis and come to the conclusion that no hair is better than hair.

Here are my reasons:

1) You can choose the hair to suit your outfit/mood/plans, rather than having to do the opposite.
2) You will never have a bad hair day
3) If you want to change the colour of your hair, it's not damaging or expensive (or time consuming) to do so.
4) You can confuse people by changing hair secretly at a party
5) It's quicker to shower
6) You hair won't get tangled while sleeping
7) A wig keeps you nice and warm when it's cool
8) You are not defined by your hair
9) You can play different roles
10) You can try different styles and colours than you would usually be afraid to
11) It gives you a fresh perspective of what physical aesthetics really are, and what the value of hair really is.

James took these photos with our new camera that Jenny gave us:

The wig that used to be my cousin Evie's

...and her other one

The wig that the NZ government paid for (thanks!)

Cheapies from the US (everything there costs less)

Evie's again

I had the NZ one cut by a hairdresser as it was too similar to the other. 

Keep an eye out for more photos and eventually video - I promise they won't all be about hair!

March 3, 2013 | Age

Eighteen. It’s my second time visiting the bright lights of Wellington. Mum and I are visiting her new boyfriend, Guy. Guy is the first boyfriend she has ever had that I have thought was adequately suited for her. We’re visiting his house, a nice old villa like none I have been inside before. It seems fancy. We’re getting ready to go out, and my heart is beginning to race. I’ve only ever been ‘out’ in sleepy New Plymouth, which has about seven bars and one club. I’ve heard all the stories about Wellington nightlife, and I simply can’t believe that I’m going to be a part of it. I slip on a tight dress that shows off my summer legs. I’ve heard you have to dress ‘nice’ to get into clubs here, but I’ve also heard that if you’re a girl and show enough skin, it doesn’t matter. Whatever, I do look ‘nice’. I team the purple and blue flowers of the dress with some little black flats – ‘I’ve got to be able to dance,’ I think excitedly.

The drink selection is overwhelming at the first bar we go to. Guy tells me to choose anything I want. I'm baffled. I have no idea what to choose, so just get what mum gets. $15 for a cocktail? That’s ridiculous! How can prices differ that much between cities like that? I hope Guy is okay with that, although I guess he must be used to it. Looking out into the street, music blares from the clubs, smoke pouring out and lights dancing. The night is young. It’s another world, and I can’t wait to explore it. I’m eighteen and finally an adult, out on the town. Here I come!

***

James and I went out last night. It was my first night ‘out on the town’ in Wellington since I was eighteen, and a stark indication of the growth that I’ve been through since last being in the country.

“Isn’t the breeze cold, you should put some clothes on!” a voice says in my head as we wander past crowds of girls wearing dresses smaller than the one I wore over three years ago. I laugh uncomfortably to myself, wondering at how boring I have become. But no matter how I scoff at it, the voice won’t be quieted. I hold in my breath and squeeze James’ hand as we walk through another hoard of them squealing in pitches that transported us to a kindergarten playground. As a high-school aged girl stumbles past almost vomiting, the aged prude in my mind couldn’t help but frown inwardly. Who have I become?

The entire time I was in the US, I thought the 21-year drinking age was ludicrous, and made it known. I would tell people that a younger age limit teaches people to drink responsibly, and would be amazed to see 21 and 22 year-olds being excited about drinking to the point of endangering themselves. “That wouldn’t happen back home,” I ranted. Nowadays, Wellington has changed my mind. I do think that people should be able to drink at 18, even earlier, but binge drinking needs be discouraged and can be. James and I were talking about the options as we drove in to go to dinner before the concert. Perhaps if 18 to 20 year olds were only allowed to buy drinks at bars, it would fix some of the binge drinking problems here - at least they would be in a supervised place and couldn't purchase packaged drinks for their younger friends. Plus, a basic beer here costs at least $9 at a bar so cost would be a discouragement in itself for the young‘uns. There certainly never was a shortage of alcohol from when I was fifteen, as there were always plenty of people at school (we thought those people were lucky) who had older siblings who were eighteen. Or there were people who were friend with the seventh-formers. And then I was suddenly eighteen, getting together with friends to down cheap wine from a grocery store before heading into town. It’s what we all did. I guess upon reflection, I never saw the drunken twenty-somethings, as I grew up in a town virtually void of twenty-somethings.

As James and I sat in the old Wellington town hall before this adventure, watching the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain play and thoroughly enjoying it, we felt old. In a strangely wonderful way. I know sometimes the tinge of nostalgia can creep up unexpectedly for the old wilder days, as we drink tea after a night of a couple of drinks. In a way, we feel growing pains, but it’s not all that painful at all.

I used to say I felt like I had skipped my childhood, as I was forced to grow up with the death of my brother when I was four and the divorce of my parents at seven. I wasn’t even good at being a teenager – the party stage only lasted a few months before I was sick of it and hit the books again, on a continual and sometimes painful plight for self-improvement. And now I sit in the early days of my twenties and wonder if the typical 20-somethings are already slipping from underneath me. Truth is, I could happily be an 80-year-old, and simply can’t wait to get there. You can trust that I’m going to give it my best shot anyway. It just seems so blissful – a lifetime of wisdom and love behind you, license to do whatever you want, be it gardening or writing or reading. Maybe by that point the back of my hair will also be wispy so I’ll be all matching and could give up on wigs…or simply wear luscious ones!

I guess being forced to think about children in doing IVF and think about mortality more than I would have ever have had considered can age a soul. I know I’ve done a lot for someone my age, perhaps packed a lifetime of stuff into a short amount of time, but it was certainly interesting to feel disconnected from most of the females my age out yonder.

I’ve been thinking a bit about the fact that I did pack so much into my short lifetime, as that was one thing that would carry me into nightmares when I was first diagnosed. I could envisage my obituary – it just seemed to eerily make sense. I worried that perhaps it was my time… that I had had my shot at life and done it well, and now it’s time to move along. But I no longer think this. Sometimes I feel that perhaps my soul was tired. I’m not saying that the cancer was a lesson that I needed, but I do think that I had tried to pack in an incredible amount and I wasn’t stopping there, I had plans.

Perhaps I needed to stop.

***

My friend Nicola, who I will be seeing next week in my hometown of New Plymouth, wrote me a card with this quote on the front:

“Life is what we are alive to. It is not length but breath. Be alive to goodness, kindness, love, purity, music, poetry, flowers, stars…”

I’m sure I’ve already talked about life being the quality of what it’s made of rather than the quantity, but I guess this also applies to growing ‘old’ in soul. Taking a break from all the madness, being alive to flowers, music and poetry. And tea and baking. I think I’m ready to grow up. In fact, I don’t feel that we really have a choice in the matter. But of course, you can either age with sparkles in your eyes, or let them fade. And so, the image of the slightly frail man with long white hair rocking out to ‘born to be wild’ on the ukulele with his hair swinging is a good one to keep in mind. And, as it will always be important for us all to understand the screams and excitement, I now simply hold on to the memories of the days when the bright lights and beats would summon me into a tantalizing trance.